The Boy Inventors' Diving Torpedo Boat

“Cuba!”

The word came from Mr. Chadwick as, two days after the events narrated in our last chapter, the dim outline of a rugged coast came into view from the deck of the White Shark. The submarine had arrived on time at Nacassa, and the boys, having witnessed the arrival of the supply steamer with Fennel on board, had rowed out to the diving boat.

But after all their adventures in her, they had hated to part with the little boat in which they had weathered such a terrific sea, and so, in response to their earnest solicitations, the craft was hoisted on board and lashed securely to the deck ring bolts.

“Remember, if it is swept away when we dive, don’t blame me,” said Mr. Dancer, and the boys promised that they wouldn’t. Privately, though, they thought it was secure against anything.

“How long before we come in sight of your mine?” asked Jack.

“Oh, Sonora is quite a way down the coast. I don’t expect to sight it before this evening. By the way, I cabled Jameson before we left that if all was well he was to hoist a white light. If not, two red ones.”

“You don’t anticipate any real trouble, do you?” asked Mr. Dancer, who was taking an airing on deck while Silas did a “trick” at the wheel.

“I don’t know. These rebels are inflamed against Americans. They think that the Cuban government grants them favors. Then, too, some them have an idea that by destroying American property they can force the intervention of the United States.”

“So that is the case. In that event I suppose things might prove to be serious. Is the Cuban army a strong one?”

“It consists mostly of rurales, a sort of rough-and-ready cavalry. But they have a few troops of infantry.”

By lunch time, the bold and rugged outline of Cape Maysoi, the eastern extremity of Cuba, was visible. The coast here rises in barren, rocky terraces, and Jack was able to tell the others that these odd geological formations were caused by the gradual receding of the sea as ages passed by.

All the afternoon they swept along the coast, which was exceedingly lonely and barren. Only a few cattle grazers’ huts could be seen as a sign of human habitation, and the rugged, stark mountains that formed the background only enhanced the sterile, wretched look of the grim coast.

One noteworthy sight was theirs when they passed Guantanamo Bay, the rendezvous of Uncle Sam’s fighting ships for battle practice every winter.

“Well, they could shoot at that shore every day and not hurt anything,” commented Jack.

Night had fallen when Mr. Chadwick declared that they were in the vicinity of Sonora. The chart showed plenty of water close into the coast, and they crept in as near as they dared. The mountains here towered precipitously up from the sea. At their feet were many caves formed by the ceaseless wash of the waves in the basal formations.

These caves exist all along that coast of Cuba, and some of them are known to run many miles underground. But nobody has ever fully explored them.

Anxiety and suspense grew keen as they neared Sonora. The cliffs rose blackly and forbiddingly against the star-spattered sky, but as yet there was no sign of a light ashore. Suddenly, from the base of one of the cliffs, the expected signal came. But it was not the white light that they had hoped for,—the light that would have meant that all was well.

Like two drops of blood on a black velvet curtain, two scarlet lamps flamed out against the dark background of the cliffs.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Chadwick, “that means the worst. Jameson is not a man who would get alarmed unnecessarily. Jupe, get a red lamp from below and swing it to and fro twice.”

“Y-y-y-yes, sah,” stuttered Jupe, who had no great stomach for fighting. To him the mysterious proceedings of the night seemed fraught with direness also.

“H-h-h-ere you am, sah,” he stammered, coming on deck and handing the lantern to Mr. Chadwick.

“I told you to wave it, Jupe.”

“Y-y-y-y-yes, sah; but am you shuh dat wha’eber dat contraption am asho’ ain’t a gwine ter shoot jes’ as soon as ah wabe?”

“So you wouldn’t mind me being shot, eh?” said Mr. Chadwick, smiling despite his very real anxiety. “All right, Jupe, give it to me.”

The lantern was waved twice. The signal was answered from shore.

“What now?” whispered Jack.

Somehow the impulse to speak in whispers was almost irresistible. What with the darkness of the night and the mystery of their errand, it seemed that danger was lurking everywhere.

“We’ll wait here,” rejoined Mr. Chadwick; “the mine is at the top of that cliff, a little bit back from the edge. It is an old one worked long ago by the Spaniards, and is as full of galleries and passages as a rabbit warren. If those rascally rebels once got into it, it would make a fine hiding place for them.”

“Is Mr. Jameson going to row out?” asked Jack, knowing that this was the only way by which the superintendent could reach them.

“Yes; we keep a boat further down the coast. See, he must have got out of the mine in some way and reached the boat and then rowed to this spot. He is a daring fellow.”

“Here he comes now,” whispered Tom, pointing to a red light which began to move over the water toward them.

“Tut! He ought to have put that lantern out,” exclaimed Mr. Chadwick. “Ah! I thought so!”

A red flash from the top of the cliff split the night. A report followed and then the whole top of the cliff blazed fire. The red light vanished, but whether extinguished by a bullet, or by Jameson’s hand, it was impossible to tell.

“Confound it, the rascals keep a good lookout. I hope they haven’t injured Jameson. He ought to have had better sense than to leave that light as a mark for them to aim at.”

A few minutes later, however, anxiety for Jameson was alleviated. A boat drew alongside out of the darkness.

“Are you all right, Jameson?” hailed Mr. Chadwick anxiously.

“Aye, I’ll be bonny, thank ’ee, Mr. Chadwick,” came a voice with a strong tinge of a burr in it; “yon callants thocht they’d finish me the noo, but they dinna ken James Jameson.”

“Well, come on board at once. You must have much to tell me.”

“Oh, aye,” rejoined Jameson, lifting his huge bulk out of the boat. “I hae that; I hae that.”

He clambered on board, securing his boat. His narrative was brief, but succinct. Two days before the rebels had surrounded the mine and were now encamped in great force outside the stockade. Only ten men remained inside the stockade on guard duty.

All the rest had deserted. Provisions were running low, and a spring which supplied water had, in some way, been cut off from the outside.

“I reckon the scallywags count on starving us out,” concluded Mr. Jameson.

“But how did you get out to reach the boat? It was kept a mile up the coast.”

“Oh, aye. Well, I climbed over the stockade, d’ye ken, and made me way to the bit boat wi’oot trouble.”

Thus did Jameson describe what must have been an act fraught with peril, for he had had to pass through the rebel lines. Mr. Chadwick felt this.

“I wish you would tell us all, James Jameson,” he said.

“Hoot, toot! I tole ye all. No use wasting words, mon.”

“So that is the situation?” mused Mr. Chadwick. “Well, that’s about as bad as it can be. When do you think they will make the attack?”

“I dinna ken; but I think to-night. They ken there is gold in the safe, for it would be pay day the noo. But then they ken we hae a machine gun, too, and they’re canny afraid of thot, I’m thinkin’.”

“I’m glad of that. But where are the regulars?”

“There are some troops above Santiago, Mr. Chadwick, but not enough to fight their way through that boilin’ of rebels. The callants all hae Remingtons, too, and some of the regular troops haven’t even guns.”

“That’s bad. Then the men inside are penned in without much hope of getting out alive unless we bring relief.”

“That’s the situation in a nutshell.”

“But how is it going to be done?” asked Mr. Chadwick with a trace of irritation in his voice at the calmness of the Scot superintendent. “We cannot leave those men in there to perish.”

“No, eets no to be thoct of.”

“But the troops are not strong enough to cut their way through the rebel ranks?”

“I’m no sayin’ they aren’t, and I’m no sayin’ they are.”

“Upon my word, Jameson, can’t you suggest something except just to stand there and negative suggestions?”

“I’m thinkin’ I’ve done some work to-night, Mr. Chadwick,” was the dignified reply.

“You’re right, you have,” exclaimed Mr. Chadwick contritely; “forgive me, Jameson, but I’m overwrought and nervous. But can’t we try the troops from the outside?”

“Eet would be of no use whatever, Meester Chadwick, and that’s the Laird’s own truth. There’s one way to drive those rascally rebels to the woods, though.”

“And how is that?”

“To get the government troops on the inside. We could cut the rebels up a bit wi’ the machine gun and put the fear of the Laird in their hearts, and then charge ’em from inside the stockade.”

“Yes; but how are you going to march your troops through the rebel ranks? You admit yourself that it is impossible.”

“It is impossible to get them inside by marching through the rebel ranks; but,” he paused impressively as if to give his words weight, “there’s another way, d’ye ken?”

“Another way of getting inside the stockade?”

“Aye, that’s what I’m tellin’ you, mon. Long, long ago, d’ye ken, the Spaniards worked that mine. They worked it pretty thoroughly, too, in their primitive way; that cliff is fair honeycombed wi’ passages an’ such.”

“Yes, yes, go on, Jameson; every minute is precious.”

They all leaned forward eagerly as the raw-boned Scot, not in the least perturbed, went leisurely on.